Chapter 22

"Alas, from what a wealth of hope I comeUnto a poor and faltering desire"—

with the rest you added to it.'

Up to this point Erastro had been silent, watching what was passing between the shepherds, wondering to see their gentle grace and bearing, with the proofs each one gave of the great discretion he had. But seeing that from step to step they had been brought to reasoning on affairs of love, as one who was so experienced in them, he broke silence, and said:

'I quite believe, discreet shepherds, that long experience will have shown you that one cannot reduce to a fixed term the disposition of loving hearts, which, being governed by another's will, are exposed to a thousand contrary accidents. And so, renowned Thyrsis, you have no reason to wonder at what Elicio has said, and he as little to wonder at what you say, or take for an example what he says you sang, still less what I know you sang when you said:

"The pallor and the weakness I display,"

wherein you clearly showed the woeful plight in which you then were; for a little later there came to our huts the news of your bliss celebrated in those verses of yours, which are so famous. They began, if I remember rightly:

"The dawn comes up, and from her fertile hand."

Whence we clearly see the difference there is between one moment and another, and how love like them is wont to change condition, making him laugh to-day who wept yesterday, and him weep to-morrow who laughs to-day. And since I have known her disposition so well, Galatea's harshness and haughty disdain cannot succeed in destroying my hopes, though I hope from her nothing save that she should be content that I should love her.'

'He who should not hope a fair issue to so loving and measured a desire as you have shown, oh shepherd,' replied Damon, 'deserved renown beyond that of a despairing lover; truly it is a great thing you seek of Galatea! But tell me, shepherd—so may she grant it you—can it be that you have your desire so well in bounds that it does not advance in desire beyond what you have said.'

'You may well believe him, friend Damon,' said Elicio, 'since Galatea's worth gives no opportunity for aught else to bedesired or hoped of her, and even this is so difficult to obtain that at times in Erastro hope is chilled, and in me grows cold, so that he counts as certain, and I as sure, that sooner must death come than hope's fulfilment. But as it is not right to welcome such honoured guests with the bitter tales of our miseries, let them now cease, and let us betake ourselves to the village, where you may rest from the heavy toil of the road, and may with greater ease, if so you wish, learn our uneasiness.'

All were pleased to fall in with Elicio's wish, and he and Erastro, collecting their flocks once more, though it was some hours before the wonted time, in company with the two shepherds, speaking on different matters, though all concerned with love, journeyed towards the village. But, as all Erastro's pastime was in playing and singing, so for this reason, as also from the desire he had to learn if the two new shepherds were as skilful as was said of them, in order to induce them and invite them to do the same, he asked Elicio to play his rebeck, to the sound of which he began to sing as follows:

ERASTRO.

Before the light of yonder peaceful eyes,Whereby the sun is lit the earth to light,My soul is so inflamed, that, in despite,I fear that death will soon secure the prize.Yon clustered rays descending from the skies,Sent by the Lord of Delos, are thus bright:Such are the tresses of my heart's delight,Whom, kneeling, I adore with litanies.Oh radiant light, ray of the radiant sun,Nay sun in very truth, to thee I pray,That thou wouldst let me love,—this boon alone.If jealous Heaven this boon to me deny,Let me not die of grief though grief doth slay,But grant, oh rays, that of a ray I die.

Before the light of yonder peaceful eyes,

Whereby the sun is lit the earth to light,

My soul is so inflamed, that, in despite,

I fear that death will soon secure the prize.

Yon clustered rays descending from the skies,

Sent by the Lord of Delos, are thus bright:

Such are the tresses of my heart's delight,

Whom, kneeling, I adore with litanies.

Oh radiant light, ray of the radiant sun,

Nay sun in very truth, to thee I pray,

That thou wouldst let me love,—this boon alone.

If jealous Heaven this boon to me deny,

Let me not die of grief though grief doth slay,

But grant, oh rays, that of a ray I die.

The shepherds did not think ill of the sonnet, nor were they displeased with Erastro's voice, which, though not one of the most exquisite, was yet a tuneful one; and straightway Elicio, moved by Erastro's example, bade him play his pipe, to the sound of which he repeated this sonnet:

ELICIO.

Alas! that to the lofty purpose, bornWithin the fastness of my loving mind,All are opposed, to wit, Heaven, fire and wind,Water and earth, and she that doth me scorn!They are my foes; 'twere better I should mournMy rashness, and the enterprise begunAbandon. But the impulse who can shunOf ruthless fate, by Love's persistence torn?Though Heaven on high, though Love, though wind and fire,Water and earth, and even my fair foe,Each one, with might, and with my fate allied,Should stay my bliss and scatter my desire,My hope undoing,—yet, though hope should go,I cannot cease to do what I have tried.

Alas! that to the lofty purpose, born

Within the fastness of my loving mind,

All are opposed, to wit, Heaven, fire and wind,

Water and earth, and she that doth me scorn!

They are my foes; 'twere better I should mourn

My rashness, and the enterprise begun

Abandon. But the impulse who can shun

Of ruthless fate, by Love's persistence torn?

Though Heaven on high, though Love, though wind and fire,

Water and earth, and even my fair foe,

Each one, with might, and with my fate allied,

Should stay my bliss and scatter my desire,

My hope undoing,—yet, though hope should go,

I cannot cease to do what I have tried.

As Elicio finished, straightway Damon, to the sound of the same pipe of Erastro, began to sing in this wise:

DAMON.

Softer than wax was I, when on my breastI did imprint the image of the faceOf Amaryllis, cruel 'midst her grace,Like to hard marble, or to savage beast.'Twas then Love set me in the loftiestSphere of his bliss, and bade sweet fortune come;But now I fear that in the silent tombAlone shall my presumption find its rest.Of hope did Love, as vine of elm, take holdSecurely, and was climbing up with speed,When moisture failed, and its ascent was stayed.'Twas not the moisture of mine eyes: of oldTheir tribute ever—Fortune this doth heed—Unto face, breast and earth, mine eyes have paid.

Softer than wax was I, when on my breast

I did imprint the image of the face

Of Amaryllis, cruel 'midst her grace,

Like to hard marble, or to savage beast.

'Twas then Love set me in the loftiest

Sphere of his bliss, and bade sweet fortune come;

But now I fear that in the silent tomb

Alone shall my presumption find its rest.

Of hope did Love, as vine of elm, take hold

Securely, and was climbing up with speed,

When moisture failed, and its ascent was stayed.

'Twas not the moisture of mine eyes: of old

Their tribute ever—Fortune this doth heed—

Unto face, breast and earth, mine eyes have paid.

Damon ceased, and Thyrsis, to the sound of the instruments of the three shepherds, began to sing this sonnet:

THYRSIS.

My faith broke through the net that death had spread;To this pass have I come that I no moreEnvy the highest and the richest storeOf happiness that man hath merited.I saw thee, and this bliss was straightway born,Fair Phyllis, unto whom fate gave for dowerTo turn to good that which was bad before,And win to laughter him who once did mourn.E'en as the felon, when he doth espyThe royal face, the rigour of the lawEscapes—this ordinance is true indeed—E'en so doth death before thy presence fly,Oh fairest of the fair, harm doth withdraw,And leaveth life and fortune in its stead.

My faith broke through the net that death had spread;

To this pass have I come that I no more

Envy the highest and the richest store

Of happiness that man hath merited.

I saw thee, and this bliss was straightway born,

Fair Phyllis, unto whom fate gave for dower

To turn to good that which was bad before,

And win to laughter him who once did mourn.

E'en as the felon, when he doth espy

The royal face, the rigour of the law

Escapes—this ordinance is true indeed—

E'en so doth death before thy presence fly,

Oh fairest of the fair, harm doth withdraw,

And leaveth life and fortune in its stead.

As Thyrsis finished, all the instruments of the shepherds made such pleasing music that it gave great joy to any who heard it, being further aided from among the dense branches by a thousand kinds of painted birds, which seemed as in chorus to give them back reply with divine harmony. In this way they had gone on a stretch, when they came to an ancient hermitage standing on the slope of a hillock, not so far from the road butthat they could hear the sound of a harp which some one, it seemed, was playing within. Erastro, hearing this, said:

'Stop, shepherds, for, as I think, we shall hear to-day what I have wished to hear for days, namely, the voice of a graceful youth, who, some twelve or fourteen days ago, came to spend within yon hermitage a life harder than it seems to me his few years can bear. Sometimes when I have passed this way, I have heard a harp being played and a voice sounding, so sweet that it has filled me with the keenest desire to listen to it; but I have always come at the moment he stayed his song; and though by speaking to him I have managed to become his friend, offering to his service all within my means and power, I have never been able to prevail with him to disclose to me who he is, and the causes which have moved him to come so young and settle in such solitude and retirement.'

What Erastro said about the young hermit, newly come there, filled the shepherds with the same desire of knowing him as he had; and so they agreed to approach the hermitage in such a way that without being perceived they might be able to hear what he sang, before they came to speak to him, and on doing this, they succeeded so well that they placed themselves in a spot where, without being seen or perceived, they heard him who was within uttering to the sound of his harp, verses such as these:

If Heaven, Love and Fortune have been pleased—The fault was not mine own—To set me thus in such a parlous state,Vainly unto the air I make my moan,Vainly on high was raisedUnto the moon the thought that seemed so great.Oh cruel, cruel, fate!By what mysterious and unwonted waysHave my sweet joyous daysBeen checked at such a pass in their careerThat I am dying and e'en life do fear!Enraged against myself I burn and glowTo see that I can bearSuch pains, and yet my heart breaks not; the windReceiveth not my soul, though vital airAmidst my bitter woeAt last withdraws, and leaveth naught behind.And there anew I findThat hope doth lend its aid to give me strength,And, though but feigned, doth strengthen life at length,'Tis not Heaven's pity, for it doth ordainThat to long life be given longer pain.The hapless bosom of a lovèd friendIn turn made tender mine,At once I undertook the dread emprize.Oh sweet and bitter plight none can divine!Oh deed that ne'er shall end!Oh strategy that madness did devise!To win for him the prizeHow bounteous and how kind Love did appear,To me how full of fearAnd loyalty, and yet how covetous!To more than this a friend constraineth us.An unjust guerdon for a wish as justAt every step we seeBy a distrustful fortune's hand bestowed,And, traitorous Love, by thine; we know of theeThat 'tis thy joy and trustThat lovers e'en in life should bear death's load.The living flame that glowed—Oh may it kindle in thy pinions lightAnd may, in thy despite,To ashes sink each good and evil dart,Or turn, when thou dost loose it, 'gainst thine heart.How comes it then, by what deceit or wile,By what strange wanderings,Didst thou possession take of me by storm?How 'midst my longings after higher thingsWithin the heart, from guileYet free, didst thou my healthy will transform,False traitor to my harm?Who is so wise as patiently to seeHow that I entered, freeAnd safe, to sing thy glories and thy pains,And now upon my neck do feel thy chains?'Twere right that I should of myself complain,Nor to thee give the blame,That 'gainst thy fire I did not strive to fight.I yielded, and the wind, amidst my shame,That slept, I roused amainEven the wind of chance with furious might.A just decree and rightHath Heaven pronounced against me that I die;This only fear have I,Amidst my luckless fate and hapless doom,Misfortune will not end e'en in the tomb.Thou, sweetest friend, and thou, my sweetest foe,Timbrio, Nisida fair,Happy and hapless both? What unjust powerOf ruthless fate, what unrelenting star,Enemy of my woe,Hard and unkind, hath in this evil hourParted us evermore?Oh wretched and unstable lot of man!How soon to sudden painIs changed our joy, that swiftly flies away,And cloudy night doth follow cloudless day!What man will put his trust with might and mainIn the instabilityAnd in the change, pervading human things?On hasty pinions time away doth fleeAnd draweth in its trainThe hope of him who weeps, and him who sings.Whenever Heaven bringsIts favour, 'tis to him, in holy loveRaising to Heaven aboveThe soul dissolved in heavenly passion's fire,To him that doth nor loss nor gain desire.Here, gracious Lord, with all my power I raiseTo holy Heaven on highMy hands, my eyes, my thoughts, in prayer always;My soul doth hope therebyTo see its ceaseless mourning turned to praise.

Enraged against myself I burn and glowTo see that I can bearSuch pains, and yet my heart breaks not; the windReceiveth not my soul, though vital airAmidst my bitter woeAt last withdraws, and leaveth naught behind.And there anew I findThat hope doth lend its aid to give me strength,And, though but feigned, doth strengthen life at length,'Tis not Heaven's pity, for it doth ordainThat to long life be given longer pain.

The hapless bosom of a lovèd friendIn turn made tender mine,At once I undertook the dread emprize.Oh sweet and bitter plight none can divine!Oh deed that ne'er shall end!Oh strategy that madness did devise!To win for him the prizeHow bounteous and how kind Love did appear,To me how full of fearAnd loyalty, and yet how covetous!To more than this a friend constraineth us.

An unjust guerdon for a wish as justAt every step we seeBy a distrustful fortune's hand bestowed,And, traitorous Love, by thine; we know of theeThat 'tis thy joy and trustThat lovers e'en in life should bear death's load.The living flame that glowed—Oh may it kindle in thy pinions lightAnd may, in thy despite,To ashes sink each good and evil dart,Or turn, when thou dost loose it, 'gainst thine heart.

How comes it then, by what deceit or wile,By what strange wanderings,Didst thou possession take of me by storm?How 'midst my longings after higher thingsWithin the heart, from guileYet free, didst thou my healthy will transform,False traitor to my harm?Who is so wise as patiently to seeHow that I entered, freeAnd safe, to sing thy glories and thy pains,And now upon my neck do feel thy chains?

'Twere right that I should of myself complain,Nor to thee give the blame,That 'gainst thy fire I did not strive to fight.I yielded, and the wind, amidst my shame,That slept, I roused amainEven the wind of chance with furious might.A just decree and rightHath Heaven pronounced against me that I die;This only fear have I,Amidst my luckless fate and hapless doom,Misfortune will not end e'en in the tomb.

Thou, sweetest friend, and thou, my sweetest foe,Timbrio, Nisida fair,Happy and hapless both? What unjust powerOf ruthless fate, what unrelenting star,Enemy of my woe,Hard and unkind, hath in this evil hourParted us evermore?Oh wretched and unstable lot of man!How soon to sudden painIs changed our joy, that swiftly flies away,And cloudy night doth follow cloudless day!

What man will put his trust with might and mainIn the instabilityAnd in the change, pervading human things?On hasty pinions time away doth fleeAnd draweth in its trainThe hope of him who weeps, and him who sings.Whenever Heaven bringsIts favour, 'tis to him, in holy loveRaising to Heaven aboveThe soul dissolved in heavenly passion's fire,To him that doth nor loss nor gain desire.

Here, gracious Lord, with all my power I raiseTo holy Heaven on highMy hands, my eyes, my thoughts, in prayer always;My soul doth hope therebyTo see its ceaseless mourning turned to praise.

With a deep sigh, the secluded youth, who was within the hermitage, ended his mournful song, and the shepherds, perceiving that he was not going on, without more delay, went in all together, and saw there, at one end, sitting on a hard stone, a comely and graceful youth, apparently two and twenty years of age, clad in a rough kersey, his feet unshod and his body girt with a coarse rope, which served him as belt. His head was drooping on one side, one hand clutched the portion of the tunic over his heart, the other arm fell limply on the other side. As they saw him in this plight, and as he had made no movement on the entry of the shepherds, they clearly recognised that he had fainted, as was the truth, for his deep brooding over his sorrows often brought him to such a pass. Erastro went up to him, and seizing him roughly by the arm, made him come to himself, though so dazed that he seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; which tokens of grief caused no small grief in those who witnessed it, and straightway Erastro said to him:

'What is it, sir, that your troubled breast feels? Do not fail to tell it, for you have before you those who will not refuse any trouble to give relief to yours.'

'These are not the first offers you have made me,' replied the young man with voice somewhat faint, 'nor yet would they bethe last I would try to make use of, if I could; but fortune has brought me to such a pass, that neither can they avail me, nor can I do justice to them more than in will. This you can take in return for the good you offer me; and if you wish to learn aught else concerning me, time, which conceals nothing, will tell you more than I could wish.'

'If you leave it to time to satisfy me in what you tell me,' replied Erastro, 'to such payment small gratitude is due, since time, in our despite, brings into the market-place the deepest secret of our hearts.'

Thereupon the rest of the shepherds all asked him to tell them the cause of his sorrow, especially Thyrsis, who, with powerful arguments, persuaded him and gave him to understand, that there is no evil in this life but brings with it its cure, unless death, that interrupts man's course, opposes it. Thereto he added other words, which moved the obstinate boy with his to satisfy them all on what they wished to learn from him: and so he said to them:

'Though for me it were better, my pleasant friends, to live the little that remains to me of life without friendship, and to retire to a greater solitude than that in which I am, yet, not to show myself irresponsive to the good-will you have shown me, I decide to tell you all that I think will be sufficient, and the passes through which fickle fortune has brought me to the strait in which I am. But as it seems to me that it is now somewhat late, and that, as my misfortunes are many, it might be possible for night to come on before I have told you them, it will be well for us all to go to the village together, since it causes me no further inconvenience to make the journey to-night I had determined on to-morrow, which is compulsory for me, since from your village I am provided with what I need for my sustenance; and on the way, as best we can, I will inform you of my adversities.'

All approved of what the young hermit said, and setting him in their midst, they turned with loitering steps to follow the road to the village; and straightway the sorrowing hermit, with tokens of great grief, began in this wise the tale of his woes:

'In the ancient and famous city of Xeres, whose inhabitants are favoured of Minerva and Mars, was born Timbrio, a valiant knight, and if I had to relate his virtues and nobility of soul, I would set myself a difficult task. It is enough to know that, whether by his great goodness, or by the power of the stars which drew me to it, I sought in every possible way to be his particular friend; and in this Heaven was so kind to me, that those who knew us, almost forgetting the name of Timbrio and that of Silerio (which is mine) merely called us the two friends, and we, by our constant converse and friendly deeds caused this to be no idle opinion. In this wise we two passed ouryouthful years in incredible joy and happiness, engaging ourselves now in the field in the pastime of the chase, now in the city in that of honourable Mars, until, one day (of the many unlucky days that hostile time has made me see in the course of my life), there happened to my friend Timbrio a weighty quarrel with a powerful knight, an inhabitant of the same city. The dispute came to such a pass that the knight remained wounded in his honour and Timbrio was obliged to absent himself, to give an opportunity for the furious discord to cease, which was beginning to kindle between the two families. He left a letter written to his enemy, informing him that he would find him in Italy, in the city of Milan or in Naples, whenever, as a knight, he should wish to have satisfaction for the insult done him. With this the factions between the kinsmen of both ceased: and it was ordained that the offended knight, who was called Pransiles, should challenge Timbrio to equal and mortal combat, and that, on finding a safe field for the combat, he should inform Timbrio. My luckless fate further ordained that, at the time this happened, I should find myself so failing in health, that I scarce could rise from my bed. And from this chance, I lost that of following my friend wherever he might be going, who, on parting, took his leave of me with no small discontent, charging me, on recovering strength, to seek him, for that I would find him in the city of Naples; and he left me with greater pain than I can now express to you. But at the end of a few days (the desire I had to see him prevailing on me more than the weakness that wearied me), I set myself straightway on the journey; and, in order that I might accomplish it with more speed and safety, fortune offered me the convenience of four galleys, which were lying ready equipped off the famous isle of Cádiz for departure to Italy. I embarked on one of them, and with a prosperous wind we soon discovered the Catalán shores; and when we had cast anchor in a harbour there, I, being somewhat weary of the sea, first making sure that the galleys were not leaving there that night, disembarked with only a friend and a servant of mine. I do not think it could have been midnight, when the sailors and those that had the galleys in charge, seeing that the serenity of the sky betokened a calm, or a prosperous wind, so as not to lose the good opportunity offered to them, at the second watch made the signal for departure; and weighing anchor, with much speed they set their oars to the smooth sea, and their sails to the gentle wind, and it was done as I say with such haste, that for all the haste I made to return to embark, I was not in time. And so I had to remain on the shore with the annoyance he can imagine, who has passed through ordinary occurrences of the kind, for I was badly supplied with everything that was necessary to continue my journey by land.But, reflecting that little remedy was to be hoped from remaining there, I determined to return to Barcelona, where, as being a larger city, it might be possible to find someone to supply me with what I needed, writing to Xeres or Seville as regards the payment. The morning broke on me, whilst engaged in these thoughts, and, determined to put them into practice, I waited till the day should be more advanced; and when on the point of departing, I perceived a great sound on land, and all the people running to the principal street of the place. And when I asked some one what it was, he replied to me: "Go, sir, to that corner, where you will learn what you want from the voice of the crier." I did so, and the first object on which I set eyes was a lofty crucifix, and a great mob of people, signs that some one condemned to death was coming among them; and all this was proved to me by the voice of the crier, declaring that justice ordered a man to be hanged for having been a robber and a highwayman. When the man came to me, I straightway recognised that he was my good friend Timbrio, coming on foot with fetters on his hands, and a rope round his throat, his eyes riveted on the crucifix he carried before him. He was speaking and protesting to the priests who were going with him, that, by the account he thought, within a few short hours, to render to the true God, whose image he had before his eyes, he had never, in all the course of his life, committed aught for which he deserved to suffer publicly so shameful a death; and he asked all to ask the judges to give him some term, to prove how innocent he was of that which they accused him of. Let it here be imagined, if imagination could raise itself so high, how I would remain at the terrible sight offered to my eyes. I know not what to say to you, gentlemen, save that I remained so amazed and beside myself, and so bereft of all my senses, that I must have seemed a marble statue to anyone who saw me at that moment. But now that the confused murmur of the people, the raised voices of the criers, the piteous words of Timbrio, and the consolatory words of the priests, and the undoubted recognition of my good friend, had brought me from my first amazement, and the seething blood came to give aid to my fainting heart, awakening in it the wrath befitting the crying vengeance for Timbrio's wrong, without regarding the danger I incurred, but only that of Timbrio, to see if I could set him free or follow him to the life beyond, fearing but little to lose mine, I laid hand on my sword; and, with more than ordinary fury, forced my way through the confused crowd, till I came to where Timbrio was. He, not knowing if so many swords had been unsheathed on his behalf, was watching what was going on with perplexed and anguished mind, until I said to him:"Where, Timbrio, is the strength of your valorous breast? What do you hope, or what do you wait for? Why not avail yourself of the present opportunity? seek, true friend, to save your life whilst mine forms a shield against the injustice, which I think is being done you here." These words of mine and Timbrio's recognition of me caused him to forget all fear and to break the bonds or fetters from his hands; but all his ardour would have availed little, had not the priests, moved with compassion, aided his wish. These seized him bodily, and despite those who sought to hinder it, entered with him into a church hard by, leaving me in the midst of all the officers of justice, who with great persistence endeavoured to seize me, as at last they did, since my strength alone was not capable of resisting so many strengths combined; and with more violence than in my opinion my offence deserved, they took me to the public gaol, wounded with two wounds. My boldness and the fact that Timbrio had escaped increased my fault, and the judges' anger; they, weighing carefully the crime committed by me, deeming it just that I should die, straightway pronounced the cruel sentence and awaited another day to execute it. This sad news came to Timbrio there in the church where he was, and as I afterwards learned, my sentence caused him more emotion than his own death-sentence had done; and to free me from it, he again offered to surrender himself once more to the power of the law; but the priests advised him that that was of little avail, nay rather, was adding evil to evil and misfortune to misfortune, since his surrender would not bring about my release, for that it could not take place without my being punished for the fault committed. Not a few arguments were needed to persuade Timbrio not to give himself up to justice; but he calmed himself by deciding in his mind to do for me next day what I had done for him, in order to pay me in the same coin or die in the attempt. I was informed of all his intentions by a priest who came to confess me, through whom I sent him word that the best remedy my calamity could have was that he should escape and seek with all speed to inform the viceroy of Barcelona of all that had happened, before the judges of that place should execute judgment on him. I also learned the reason why my friend Timbrio was consigned to bitter punishment, as the same priest I have mentioned to you told me; it was that, as Timbrio came journeying through the kingdom of Catalonia, on leaving Perpignan, he fell in with a number of brigands, who had as lord and chief a valiant Catalán gentleman, who by reason of certain enmities was in the band—as it is the time-honoured custom of that kingdom for those who have suffered from an enemy, whenever they are persons of mark, to join one, and to inflict all the evil they can, not only on lives, but on property, a practice opposed to all Christianity, and worthyof all commiseration. It happened then that while the brigands were busied in robbing Timbrio of what he had with him, that moment their lord and captain came up, and as after all he was a gentleman, he did not wish that any wrong should be done to Timbrio before his eyes; but rather, deeming him a man of worth and talents, he made him a thousand courteous offers, asking him to remain with him that night in a place near by, for that on the morrow he would give him a safe-conduct so that without any fear he might pursue his journey until he left that province. Timbrio could not but do what the courteous gentleman asked of him, constrained by the good offices received from him; they went off together and came to a little spot where they were joyously received by the people of the place. But fortune, which up till then had jested with Timbrio, ordained that that same night a company of soldiers, gathered together for this very purpose, should fall in with the brigands: and having surprised them, they easily routed them. And though they could not seize the captain, they seized and killed many others, and one of the prisoners was Timbrio, whom they took for a notorious robber in that band, and as you may imagine, he must undoubtedly have much resembled him, since, though the other prisoners testified that he was not the man they thought, telling the truth about all that had happened, yet malice had such power in the breasts of the judges that without further inquiry they sentenced him to death. And this would have been carried out, had not Heaven, that favours just purposes, ordained that the galleys should depart, and I remain on land to do what I have so far been telling you I did. Timbrio was in the church, and I in gaol, arranging that he should set out that night for Barcelona, and while I was waiting to see where the rage of the offended judges would end, Timbrio and I were freed from our misfortune amidst another yet greater that befell them. But would that Heaven had been kind and wreaked on me alone the fury of its wrath, if but it had been averted from that poor unfortunate people who placed their wretched necks beneath the edges of a thousand barbarous swords. It would be a little more than midnight, an hour suited for wicked onslaughts, at which the wearied world is wont to yield its wearied limbs to the arms of sweet sleep, when suddenly there arose among all the people a confused hubbub of voices crying: "To arms, to arms, the Turks are in the land." The echoes of these sad cries—who doubts but that they caused terror in the breasts of the women and even set consternation in the brave hearts of the men? I know not what to say to you, sirs, save that in an instant the wretched land began to burn so greedily that the very stones with which the houses were built seemed but to offer fitting fuel to the kindled fire that was consuming all. By the light of the raging flames the barbarous scimetars were seen flashing and thewhite turbans appearing of the Turks, who, all aflame, were breaking down the doors of the houses with axes or hatchets of hard steel, and entering therein, were coming out laden with Christian spoils. One carried the wearied mother, another the tender little son, who with faint and weak groans pleaded, the mother for her son, and the son for his mother; and one I know there was who with profane hand stayed the fulfilment of the rightful desire of the chaste maiden newly-wed and of the hapless husband, before whose weeping eyes mayhap he saw culled the fruit the ill-starred one was thinking in a short time to enjoy. So great was the confusion, so many the cries and minglings of these different voices that they caused much terror. The savage and devilish rabble, seeing what little resistance was made them, dared to enter the hallowed temples, and lay infidel hands on the holy relics, placing in their bosoms the gold with which they were adorned, and dashing them to the ground with loathsome contempt. Little availed the priest his holiness, the friar his refuge, the old man his snowy hair, the boy his gallant youth, or the little child his simple innocence, for from all those unbelieving dogs carried off booty. They, after burning the houses, robbing the temple, deflowering the maidens, and slaying the defenders, at the time the dawn was coming, more wearied than sated with what they had done, returned without any hindrance to their vessels, having already loaded them with all the best the village contained, leaving it desolate and without inhabitant, for they were taking with them nearly all the people and the rest had taken refuge in the mountain. Who at so sad a sight could have kept his hands still and his eyes dry? But, ah! our life is so full of woes that, for all the mournful disaster I have related to you, there were Christian hearts that rejoiced, even those of the men in the gaol who, amidst the general unhappiness, recovered their own happiness, for, pretending to go and defend the village, they broke the gates of the prison, and set themselves free, each one seeking not to attack the enemy, but to save himself, and amongst them I enjoyed the freedom so dearly gained. And seeing there was no one to face the enemy, through fear of falling into their clutches, or returning to the clutches of the prison, forsaking the wasted village, with no small pain at what I had seen, and with that caused by my wounds, I followed a man who told me he would bring me safely to a monastery which was in those mountains, where I would be cured of my hurts and even defended, if they sought to seize me again. In a word I followed him, as I have told you, in the desire to learn what my friend Timbrio's fortune had wrought; he, as I afterwards learned, had escaped with some wounds, and followed over the mountain another road different from that I took; he stopped at the port of Rosas, where he remained some days, seeking to learn what fate had been mine,and at last, not learning any news, he went away in a ship and came with a favouring wind to the great city of Naples. I returned to Barcelona, and there furnished myself with what I needed; and then, being healed of my wounds, I resumed my journey, and, no misadventure happening to me, came to Naples, where I found Timbrio ill; and such was the joy we both felt at seeing each other, that I have not the power to describe it properly to you now. There we told each other of our lives, and of all that had happened to us up to that moment; but this my pleasure was all watered by seeing Timbrio not so well as I could wish, nay rather so ill, and with so strange a disease, that if I had not come at that moment, I might have come in time to perform the rites of his death, and not to celebrate the joys of seeing him. After he had learnt from me all he wanted, with tears in his eyes he said to me: "Ah, friend Silerio! I truly think that Heaven seeks to add to the load of my misfortunes, so that, by giving me health through your safety, I may remain every day under greater obligation to serve you." These words of Timbrio's moved me; but, as they seemed to me courtesies so little used between us, they filled me with wonder. And not to weary you in telling you word for word what I replied to him, and what he answered further, I shall only tell you that Timbrio, unhappy man, was in love with a notable lady of that city, whose parents were Spaniards, though she had been born in Naples. Her name was Nisida, and her beauty so great, that I make bold to say that nature summed up in her its highest perfections; and in her modesty and beauty were so united, that what the one enflamed the other chilled, and the desires her grace raised to the loftiest heaven, her modest propriety brought down to the lowest depths of earth. From this cause Timbrio was as poor in hope as rich in thoughts; and above all failing in health, and in the plight of ending his days without disclosing his state—such was the fear and reverence he had conceived for the fair Nisida. But after I had fully learnt his disease, and had seen Nisida, and considered the quality and nobility of her parents, I determined to waive for him property, life and honour, and more, if more I had in my power to bestow. And so I employed an artifice, the strangest heard or read of up till now; which was, that I decided to dress up as a buffoon, and with a guitar to enter Nisida's house, which, as her parents were, as I have said, among the principal people of the city, was frequented by many other buffoons. This decision seemed good to Timbrio, and straightway he left to the hands of my skill all his happiness. Forthwith I had several elegant costumes made, of various kinds, and, putting them on, I began to rehearse my new character before Timbrio, who laughed not a little at seeing me thus clothed in buffoon's garb; and to see if my skill equalled the dress, he told me to say something to him, pretending that he was a great prince, and I newly come to visit him. And if memory does not fail me, and you, sirs, are not tired of listening to me, I will tell you what I sang to him then, as it was the first time.'

All said that nothing would give them greater pleasure, than to learn in detail all the issue of his affair, and so they bade him not to fail to tell them anything, however trivial it might be.

'Since you give me this permission,' said the hermit, 'I have no desire to fail to tell you how I began to give examples of my foolery, for it was with these verses that I sang to Timbrio, imagining him to be a great lord to whom I was saying them:

SILERIO.

From a prince whose path is true,Levelled by a rule so right,What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?Neither in this present age,Nor in times of long ago,Hath a State been ruled, I know,By a prince who is so sage,One whose zeal is measured trueBy the Christian rule of right:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?For another's good he toils,Mercy ever in his eye,In his bosom equity,Seeking ne'er another's spoils:Unto him the most, 'tis true,In the world the least is, quite:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?And thy name for kindly Love,Which doth raise itself to Heaven,That a holy soul hath givenUnto thee, doth clearly proveThat thy course thou keepest true,And art loyal to Heaven's right:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?When a prince's Christian breastShrinketh aye from cruelty,Righteousness and clemencyAre his guardians trustiest:When a prince, where none pursue,Towards the sky, doth raise his flight:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

From a prince whose path is true,Levelled by a rule so right,What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

From a prince whose path is true,

Levelled by a rule so right,

What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?

Neither in this present age,Nor in times of long ago,Hath a State been ruled, I know,By a prince who is so sage,One whose zeal is measured trueBy the Christian rule of right:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

Neither in this present age,

Nor in times of long ago,

Hath a State been ruled, I know,

By a prince who is so sage,

One whose zeal is measured true

By the Christian rule of right:—

What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?

For another's good he toils,Mercy ever in his eye,In his bosom equity,Seeking ne'er another's spoils:Unto him the most, 'tis true,In the world the least is, quite:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

For another's good he toils,

Mercy ever in his eye,

In his bosom equity,

Seeking ne'er another's spoils:

Unto him the most, 'tis true,

In the world the least is, quite:—

What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?

And thy name for kindly Love,Which doth raise itself to Heaven,That a holy soul hath givenUnto thee, doth clearly proveThat thy course thou keepest true,And art loyal to Heaven's right:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

And thy name for kindly Love,

Which doth raise itself to Heaven,

That a holy soul hath given

Unto thee, doth clearly prove

That thy course thou keepest true,

And art loyal to Heaven's right:—

What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?

When a prince's Christian breastShrinketh aye from cruelty,Righteousness and clemencyAre his guardians trustiest:When a prince, where none pursue,Towards the sky, doth raise his flight:—What, save deeds that Heaven delight,Can we hope from him to view?

When a prince's Christian breast

Shrinketh aye from cruelty,

Righteousness and clemency

Are his guardians trustiest:

When a prince, where none pursue,

Towards the sky, doth raise his flight:—

What, save deeds that Heaven delight,

Can we hope from him to view?

'These and other things of more jest and laughter I then sang to Timbrio, seeking to adapt the spirit and bearing of my body, so that I might in every way show myself a practised buffoon: and so well did I get on in the part, that in a few days I was known by all the chief people in the city, and the fame of the Spanish buffoon flew through it all, until at last they desired to see me in the house of Nisida's father, which desire I would have fulfilled for them with much readiness, if I had not purposely waited to be asked. But at length I could not excuse myself from going there one day when they had a banquet, where I saw more closely the just cause Timbrio had for suffering, and that which Heaven gave me to rob me of happiness all the days I shall remain in this life. I saw Nisida, Nisida I saw, that I might see no more, nor is there more to see after having seen her. Oh mighty power of love, against which our mighty powers avail but little! can it be that in an instant, in a moment, thou shouldst bring the props and armaments of my loyalty to such a pass, as to level them all with the ground! Ah, if only the thought of who I was had stayed with me a little for aid, the friendship I owed to Timbrio, Nisida's great worth, and the ignominious costume in which I found myself, which all hindered the hope of winning her (the staff wherewith love, in the beginnings of love, advances or retires) from springing up together with the new and loving desire that had sprung up in me. In a word I saw the beauty I have told you, and since to see her was of such moment to me, I sought ever to win the friendship of her parents, and of all her household; and this by playing the wit and the man of breeding, playing my part with the greatest discretion and grace in my power. And when a gentleman who was at table that day asked me to sing something in praise of Nisida's beauty, fortune willed that I should call to mind some verses, which I had made, many days before, for another all but similar occasion; and adopting them for the present one, I repeated them to this effect:

SILERIO.

'Tis from thine own self we see,Lady fair, how kind is Heaven,For it hath, in giving thee,Unto earth an image given,Of its veiled radiancy.Easily we come to know,If it could not more bestowAnd thou couldst no more desire,That he highly must aspire,Who aspires your praise to show.All the sovereign, matchless graceOf that beauty from afar,Which to Heaven doth us raise,Tongue of man could not but mar,—Let the tongue of Heaven praise,Saying,—and 'tis not in vain—That the soul which doth containSuch a being for its pride,More than aught on earth besideShould the lovely veil attain.From the sun she took her hair,From the peaceful Heaven her brow,Of her eyes the light so fairFrom a radiant star which nowShineth not when they are there;From the cochineal and the snow,Boldly and with might, I trow,Did she steal their lovely hue,For to thy fair cheek is dueThe perfections that they show.Teeth and lips of ivoryAnd of coral, whence a springIssues, rich in fantasy,Full of wisest reasoning,And celestial harmony;But of marble stubbornestShe hath made her lovely breast,Yet in truth we see that earthIs made better by her worth,E'en as Heaven itself is blest.

'Tis from thine own self we see,

Lady fair, how kind is Heaven,

For it hath, in giving thee,

Unto earth an image given,

Of its veiled radiancy.

Easily we come to know,

If it could not more bestow

And thou couldst no more desire,

That he highly must aspire,

Who aspires your praise to show.

All the sovereign, matchless graceOf that beauty from afar,Which to Heaven doth us raise,Tongue of man could not but mar,—Let the tongue of Heaven praise,Saying,—and 'tis not in vain—That the soul which doth containSuch a being for its pride,More than aught on earth besideShould the lovely veil attain.

All the sovereign, matchless grace

Of that beauty from afar,

Which to Heaven doth us raise,

Tongue of man could not but mar,—

Let the tongue of Heaven praise,

Saying,—and 'tis not in vain—

That the soul which doth contain

Such a being for its pride,

More than aught on earth beside

Should the lovely veil attain.

From the sun she took her hair,From the peaceful Heaven her brow,Of her eyes the light so fairFrom a radiant star which nowShineth not when they are there;From the cochineal and the snow,Boldly and with might, I trow,Did she steal their lovely hue,For to thy fair cheek is dueThe perfections that they show.

From the sun she took her hair,

From the peaceful Heaven her brow,

Of her eyes the light so fair

From a radiant star which now

Shineth not when they are there;

From the cochineal and the snow,

Boldly and with might, I trow,

Did she steal their lovely hue,

For to thy fair cheek is due

The perfections that they show.

Teeth and lips of ivoryAnd of coral, whence a springIssues, rich in fantasy,Full of wisest reasoning,And celestial harmony;But of marble stubbornestShe hath made her lovely breast,Yet in truth we see that earthIs made better by her worth,E'en as Heaven itself is blest.

Teeth and lips of ivory

And of coral, whence a spring

Issues, rich in fantasy,

Full of wisest reasoning,

And celestial harmony;

But of marble stubbornest

She hath made her lovely breast,

Yet in truth we see that earth

Is made better by her worth,

E'en as Heaven itself is blest.

'With these and other things that I then sang, all were so charmed with me, and especially Nisida's parents, that they offered me all I might need, and asked me to let no day go by without visiting them; and so, without my purpose being discovered or imagined, I came to achieve my first design, which was to expedite my entrance into the house of Nisida, who enjoyed extremely my bright ways. But now that the lapse of many days, and my frequent converse and the great friendship all that household showed me, had removed some shadows from the excessive fear I felt at disclosing my intent to Nisida, I determined to see how far went the fortune of Timbrio, whose only hope for it lay in my solicitude. But woe is me! I was then more ready to ask a salve for my wound than health for another's; for Nisida's grace, beauty, discretion, and modesty had so wrought in my soul that it was placed in no less an extreme of grief and love than that of hapless Timbrio. To yourdiscreet imagination I leave it to picture what a heart could feel in which there fought, on the one hand, the laws of friendship, and, on the other, the inviolable laws of Cupid; for, if those obliged it not to go beyond what they and reason asked of it, these constrained it to set store by what was due to its happiness. These attacks and struggles afflicted me in such wise that, without procuring another's health I began to have fears for my own, and to grow so weak and pale that I caused general compassion in all that saw me, and those who showed it most were Nisida's parents; and even she herself, with pure and Christian sympathy, often asked me to tell her the cause of my disease, offering me all that was necessary for its cure. "Ah!" would I say to myself whenever Nisida made me such offers, "with what ease, fair Nisida, could your hand cure the evil your beauty has wrought! but I boast myself so good a friend that, though I counted my cure as certain as I count it impossible and uncertain, it would be impossible for me to accept it." And since these thoughts at such moments disturbed my fancy, I did not succeed in making any reply to Nisida; whereat she and a sister of hers, who was called Blanca (less in years, though not less in discretion and beauty than Nisida), were amazed, and with increasing desire to know the origin of my sadness, with many importunities asked me to conceal from them nought of my grief. Seeing, then, that fortune offered me the opportunity of putting into practice what my cunning had brought so far, once, when by chance the fair Nisida and her sister found themselves alone, and returned anew to ask what they had asked so often, I said to them: "Think not, ladies, that the silence I have up till now kept in not telling you the cause of the pain you imagine I feel has been caused by my small desire to obey you, since it is very clear that if my lowly state has any happiness in this life, it is to have thereby succeeded in coming to know you, and to serve you as retainer. The only cause has been the thought that, though I reveal it, it will not serve for more than to give you grief, seeing how far away is its cure. But now that it is forced upon me to satisfy you in this, you must know, ladies, that in this city is a gentleman, a native of my own country, whom I hold as master, refuge, and friend, the most generous, discreet, and courtly man that may be found far and wide. He is here, away from his dear native land, by reason of certain quarrels which befell him there and forced him to come to this city, believing that, if there in his own land he left enemies, here in a foreign land friends would not fail him. But his belief has turned out so mistaken that one enemy alone, whom, without knowing how, he has made here for himself, has placed him in such a pass that if Heaven do not help him he will end his friendships and enmities by ending his life. And as I know the worth of Timbrio (for thisis the name of the gentleman whose misfortune I am relating to you), and know what the world will lose in losing him and what I shall lose if I lose him, I give the tokens of feeling you have seen, and even they are small compared to what the danger in which Timbrio is placed ought to move me to. I know well that you will desire to know, ladies, who is the enemy who has placed so valorous a gentleman as he whom I have depicted to you in such a pass; but I also know that, in naming him to you, you will not wonder save that he has not yet destroyed him and slain him. His enemy is love, the universal destroyer of our peace and prosperity; this fierce enemy took possession of his heart. On entering this city Timbrio beheld a fair lady of singular worth and beauty, but so high placed and so modest that the hapless one has never dared to reveal to her his thought." To this point had I come when Nisida said to me: "Truly, Astor," for this was my name for the nonce, "I know not if I can believe that that gentleman is as valorous and discreet as you say, since he has allowed himself so easily to surrender to an evil desire so newly born, yielding himself so needlessly to the arms of despair; and though I understand but little these effects of love, yet it seems to me that it is folly and weakness for him who is cast down by them to fail to reveal his thoughts to her who inspires it in him, though she be of all the worth conceivable. For what shame can result to her from knowing that she is well loved, or to him what greater evil from her harsh and petulant reply than the death he himself brings on himself by being silent? It would not be right that because a judge has a reputation for sternness, anyone should fail to allege proof of his claim. But let us suppose that the death take place of a lover as silent and timid as that friend of yours; tell me, would you call the lady with whom he was in love cruel? No indeed, for one can scarcely relieve the need which does not come to one's knowledge, nor does it fall within one's duty to seek to learn it so as to relieve it. So, forgive me, Astor, but the deeds of that friend of yours do not make very true the praises you give him." When I heard such words from Nisida, straightway I could have wished by mine to reveal to her all the secret of my breast, but, as I understood the goodness and simplicity with which she expressed them, I had to check myself, waiting for a better and more private opportunity, and thus I replied to her: "When the affairs of love, fair Nisida, are regarded with free eyes, follies so great are seen in them that they are no less worthy of laughter than of pity: but if the soul finds itself entangled in love's subtle net, then the feelings are so fettered and so beside their wonted selves, that memory merely serves as treasurer and guardian of the object the eyes have regarded, the understanding is of use only in searching into and learning the worth of her whom it loves well, and thewill in consenting that the memory and understanding should not busy themselves with aught else: and so the eyes see like a silvered mirror, for they make everything larger. Now hope increases when they are favoured, now fear when they are cast down; and thus what has happened to Timbrio, happens to many, that deeming at first very high the object to which their eyes were raised, they lose the hope of attaining it, but not in such wise that love does not say to them there within the soul: Who knows? it might be; and thereat hope goes, as the saying is, between two waters, while if it should forsake them altogether, love would flee with it. And hence it arises that the heart of the afflicted lover walks between fearing and daring, and without venturing to tell it, he braces himself up, and presses together his wound, hoping, though he knows not from whom, for the remedy from which he sees himself so far away. In this very plight I have found Timbrio, though, in spite of all, he has, at my persuasion, written to the lady for whom he is dying, a letter which he gave to me that I might give it to her and see if there appeared in it anything in any way unseemly, so that I might correct it. He charged me also to seek the means of placing it in his lady's hands, which, I think, will be impossible, not because I will not hazard it, since the least I will hazard to serve him will be life, but because it seems to me that I shall not find an opportunity to give it." "Let us see it," said Nisida, "for I wish to see how discreet lovers write." Straightway I drew from my bosom a letter which had been written some days before, in the hope of an opportunity for Nisida to see it, and fortune offering to me this one, I showed it to her. As I had read it many times, it remained in my memory, and its words were these:

TIMBRIO TONISIDA.

"I had determined, fair lady, that my ill-starred end might declare to you who I was, since it seemed to me better that you should praise my silence in death than blame my boldness in life; but as I think it befits my soul to leave this world in favour with you, so that in the next love may not deny it the reward for what it has suffered, I make you cognisant of the state in which your rare beauty has placed me. It is such that, though I could indicate it, I would not obtain its cure, since for small things no one should make bold to offend your exalted worth, whereby, and by your honourable generosity I hope to renew life to serve you, or to win death to offend you never more."

'Nisida was listening with much attention to this letter, and, when she had heard it all, said: "The lady to whom this letter is sent has naught to complain of, unless, from pure pride, she has become prudish, a failing from which thegreater part of the ladies in this city are not free. But nevertheless, Astor, do not fail to give it to her, since, as I have already told you, more evil cannot be expected from her reply, than that the evil you say your friend suffers now should become worse. And to encourage you the more, I wish to assure you that there is no woman so coy and so on the alert to watch over her honour that it grieves her much to see and learn that she is loved, for then she knows that the opinion she holds of herself is not vain, while it would be the contrary if she saw she was wooed by none." "I know well, lady, that what you say is true," I replied, "but I am afraid that, if I make bold to give it, it must at least cost me the refusal of admittance henceforward into that house, whereat there would come to me no less hurt than to Timbrio." "Seek not, Astor," replied Nisida, "to confirm the sentence which the judge has not yet given. Be of good courage, for this on which you venture is no fierce conflict." "Would to Heaven, fair Nisida," I answered, "that I saw myself in that pass, for more readily would I offer my breast to the danger and fierceness of a thousand opposing arms than my hand to give this loving letter to her who, I fear, being offended by it, must hurl upon my shoulders the punishment another's fault deserves. But, in spite of these objections, I intend to follow, lady, the counsel you have given me, though I shall wait for a time when fear shall not occupy my feelings as much as now. Meanwhile I entreat you to pretend that you are the one to whom this letter is sent, and give me some reply to take to Timbrio, in order that by this deceit he may be comforted a little, and time and opportunities may reveal to me what I am to do." "A poor artifice you would employ," answered Nisida, "for, granted that I were now to give, in another's name, some soft or disdainful reply, do you not see that time, that discloses our ends, will clear up the deceit, and Timbrio will be more angry with you than satisfied? Especially as since I have not hitherto replied to such letters, I would not wish to begin by giving replies in a feigned and lying manner; but, though I know I am going contrary to what I owe to myself, if you promise to tell me who the lady is, I will tell you what to say to your friend, and such words that he will be pleased for the nonce, and even though afterwards things turn out contrary to what he thinks, the lie will not be found out thereby." "Do not ask this of me, Nisida," I answered, "for to tell you her name places me in confusion as great as I would be placed in if I gave her the letter. Suffice it to know that she is of high degree, and that, without doing you any detriment, she is not inferiorto you in beauty, and saying this, it seems to me, I praise her more than all women born." "I am not surprised that you say this of me," said Nisida, "since, with men of your condition and calling, to flatter is their business; but, leaving all this on one side, as I do not wish you to lose the comfort of so good a friend, I advise you to tell him that you went to give the letter to his lady, and that you have held with her all the discourses you have held with me, without omitting anything, and how she read your letter, and the encouragement she gave you to take it to his lady, thinking she was not the one to whom it came, and that, though you did not make bold to declare everything, you have come to this conclusion from her words that, when she learns she is the one for whom the letter came, the deceit and the undeceiving will not cause her much pain. In this way he will receive some solace in his trouble, and afterwards, on revealing your intention to his lady, you can reply to Timbrio what she replies to you, since, up to the moment she knows it, this lie remains in force, and the truth of what may follow, without to-day's deceit interfering." I was left marvelling at Nisida's discreet project, and indeed not without mistrust of the honesty of my own artifice; and so, kissing her hands for the good counsel, and agreeing with her that I was to give her a particular account of whatever happened in this affair, I went and told Timbrio all that had happened to me with Nisida. Thence came it that hope came into his soul and turned anew to sustain him, banishing from his heart the clouds of chilly fear that up till then had kept him in gloom; and all this pleasure was increased by my promising him at every step that my steps should only be devoted to his service, and that when next I found myself with Nisida, he should win the game of skill with as fair a success as his thoughts deserved. One thing I have forgotten to tell you, that all the time I was talking with Nisida and her sister, the younger sister never spoke a word, but with a strange silence ever hung on mine; and I can tell you, sirs, that, if she was silent, it was not because she could not speak with all discretion and grace, for in these two sisters nature showed all she has in her power to bestow. Nevertheless, I know not if I should tell you that I would that Heaven had denied me the happiness of having known them, especially Nisida, the beginning and end of all my misfortune; but what can I do, if that which the fates have ordained cannot be stayed by human means? I loved, love, and shall love Nisida well, yet without hurt to Timbrio, as my wearied tongue has well shown, for I never spoke to her, but itwas on Timbrio's behalf, ever concealing, with more than ordinary discretion, my own pain, so as to cure another's. It happened then, that as Nisida's beauty was so engraven on my soul from the first moment my eyes beheld her, being unable to keep so rich a treasure concealed in my breast, whenever I found myself at times alone or apart, I used to reveal it in some loving and mournful songs under the veil of a feigned name. And so one night, thinking that neither Timbrio nor anyone else was listening to me, to comfort somewhat my wearied spirit, in a retired apartment, to the accompaniment only of a lute, I sang some verses, which, as they placed me in the direst turmoil, I shall have to repeat to you. They were as follows:

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